The sirens seem more frequent than the trains on the Manhattan Bridge now. And it clicked today that, no, there aren't more birds than normal this spring, its just so quiet now (aside from the sirens) that I can hear them all day instead of just the dawn songs over bambi boobing it up every morning (still).
I can't focus on reading anything right now. I think its a self absorption that comes from trauma that makes you enable to take in anything that's not directly related to you and the very specific situation you are in-- you know the one called "novel" because no one has ever even fathomed it could be a possibility outside of fantasy apocalypse writers. I'm barely hanging on with a book that could be a memoir of my own conservative, christian, sexist childhood but even with that I keep feeling anger at the ease of movement throughout. I wish I could get into something that I identify with only abstractly or aesthetically but not so far. I keep starting books and drifting away--leaving precarious piles behind me.
Chinatown has finally caught on with the rest of the city, clapping at 7pm for essential workers (I think its technically for healthcare workers but I'm telling bambi its for them and also for cashiers, postal workers, garbage-people?? that can't be right, but neither is garbage men). We joined a few voices and she yelled "Thank YOU" in her baby voice through the grime covered screen. And I tried to cheer but it caught in my throat and sounded rat like. She cried and cried and cried in my arms earlier in the evening, every curl become moist and tight, and I rocked her and rocked her and rocked her.
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